Drive

I love driving around like I fuckin' own the road.
"In the wee small hours of the morning,
When the whole wide world is fast asleep."
As if "I'm all at sea, with no one to bother me."
Speeding through the vacant streets,
Passing every green light.
Feeling the breeze in my hair, brushing against the side of my face.
All so quiet but the rumbling of the engine,
and the sound of my tires against the roughness of the cool asphalt.
I'm in the driver's seat.
And the road is endless.

It's the sensation of freedom.
No one's there to tell you where to go.
You can steer left or right,
but you're always moving forward.
The road behind you is only as big as the image reflected on your rear view mirror.
So insignificant.

It gets lonely sometimes.
Perhaps that is the cost of freedom.
Loneliness.
But this sense of solitude is important, too,
as you search through the darkness and gather a sense of self.
Just you and your thoughts.
Or no thoughts at all.

You drive through the night,
and the skyline begins to light up.
You can almost see the clouds now.
And you no longer own the road.
Drivers around have their destinations,
their one-track minds numb to the fact that they're just as alive.
But then they're not.
And you,
without a care in the world,
not rushing about just to live another day,
you come to appreciate light,
because everything has its colors again.
And you realize,
sometimes it's nice to feel so small,
to feel that you could just be a part of something bigger,
much bigger,
and it's okay.

The whole world is about to carry on with the day,
as I drove home,
to the solitude of my own room.
I chronicled this day before I sleep.
Because I can wake up tomorrow,
and do this all over again.
Or,
to live a different day;
to have a different mentality,
and still know that the multitude of me
is exactly who I am.
Living in the moment.
Knowing that I am.